The Mathematics of Survival

Maya stared at her iphone until the screen went dark, then stared some more, hoping for a message that wouldn't come. Three weeks since David walked out, taking the dog, the good coffee maker, and whatever version of herself she'd been when they met.

She swallowed her vitamin D supplement with lukewarm tap water, part of the daily ritual she'd meticulously reconstructed from the wreckage. Doctor's orders for the seasonal depression that descended every November like a predictable visitor who overstayed its welcome.

At the office, her boss Gary—that ancient **bull** of a man who'd survived three corporate mergers and still managed to make every meeting feel like a cage match—looming over her desk. 'Numbers aren't looking good, Maya.' He didn't say it with malice, just the weary acceptance of someone who'd seen dozens of talented young women burn themselves to ash trying to prove they belonged.

She nodded, already feeling it: that peculiarly modern **zombie** state where her body moved through required motions while her consciousness hovered somewhere near the ceiling, watching dispassionately. Make coffee. Answer emails. Pretend to care about Q3 projections. Her coworkers moved like synchronized swimmers in a tank she'd forgotten how to navigate.

The walk home took her past the dog park where she and David used to bring Buster. She could see them still—some couple's golden retriever chasing tennis balls with that desperate joy dogs managed to maintain despite humans' best efforts to complicate existence. Buster. David had kept him, claiming the dog needed stability, which was rich coming from a man who couldn't commit to a restaurant reservation forty-eight hours in advance.

Her iphone buzzed. Not David.

'Hey, want to grab a drink?' – Sarah from accounting. Maya had forgotten she'd given Sarah her number after that torturous happy hour last month.

She stood on the sidewalk, autumn leaves swirling around her ankles like misplaced ambitions. The vitamin D wasn't working. Or maybe it was working fine, and this was just what healing looked like: not some cinematic transformation, but the slow, unremarkable business of learning to be hungry again.

Maya typed back: 'Yes. 7 works.'

Then, before she could overthink it: 'Also, I'm terrible company lately.'

'Relax,' came the reply. 'We're all just stumbling through it together.'

She pocketed the phone and kept walking, and for the first time in weeks, the forward motion felt like something she was choosing rather than something happening to her.